


Olympic Tryouts (part 28)

by jennamacaroni



Series: Olympic Tryouts [28]
Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hockey, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-12
Updated: 2014-12-12
Packaged: 2018-03-01 05:33:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2761463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jennamacaroni/pseuds/jennamacaroni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Santana and Brittany have been rivals in the college hockey world for the past four years.  now they’re both at Olympic tryouts to play on the same team and Boston and Minnesota just don’t get along, okay</p>
            </blockquote>





	Olympic Tryouts (part 28)

**Author's Note:**

> part 27 was a bit shorter than usual so here’s another kind of short-ish part to make up for it. two days in a row! happy friday, everyone :D
> 
> as always, thank you to everyone who supports me and this silly story, tackle hugs for all of you.

The first time Santana asks Brittany out on a proper date that doesn’t include holing up in their room with takeout Chinese food or meeting in the training room to take ice baths in adjacent buckets while Santana reads Harry Potter aloud, they’re in the middle of speed workouts in the college football stadium. While the defenders are running the exhausting circuit of stairs up and down each section for the full circumference of the bowl, or what Santana likes to refer to as the Stairway to Hell, the forwards are gathered in the south end zone with Coach Roz, trying to catch their breaths between 200-yard parachute sprints.

There’s a frustrated roar that echoes around the nearly empty stadium and Santana snorts in between taking deep gulps of thin mountain air because she’d recognize that groan anywhere. “Seems like,” gasp, “Quinn’s having,” gasp, “a lovely time.”

Coach Taylor’s voice carries down onto the field from his place in the press box where he’s been watching with a bird’s-eye view. “That all you got, Fabray? You ready to quit? We’re not out here for an afternoon stroll, pick up those knees and move it!”

“Fuck,” Brittany curses, shaking her head in the general direction of Coach Taylor.

“You okay, B?”

“Fiiiine. About to beat your hot ass in this next set. _Again_.”

“Oh, is that so? Well, how about if you win, I plan, fund, and execute our next official date. Friday night. And if _I_ win, you have to be my slave for one whole night, no questions asked.”

“Wanky.”

“So do we have a deal, Miss Pierce?”

“We have an accord,” Brittany agrees in a drawling British accent, reaching out a hand to make the wager official. As Coach Roz calls them back on the end line, Santana lines up alongside Brittany who turns to wink at her, smirking smugly because Santana has yet to beat her all afternoon.

“You know the drill, ladies. Down and back, fast as you can, on my whistle!” Coach Roz shouts, as each player crouches into a ready-position on the balls of their feet, ready to take off at a full sprint.

The whistle is loud and shrill cutting through the late September air as they fire off, parachutes ballooning with air and snapping to attention, increasing the drag as they run full tilt towards the other end zone. Santana finds herself looking back over her shoulder every so often to find Brittany just a few strides behind, but somehow her lead is growing. Every muscle is screaming in exertion and exhaustion, arms pumping furiously and willing herself forward faster, faster. By the time she reaches the far end line, she slows her momentum enough to bend and touch the line before pivoting on a dime and pitching forward again, half-jumping to avoid getting tangled in the strings of the parachute. When it re-engages, the fabric tugs her back but she keeps pushing forward, zipping by Brittany who is still yet to make the turn. Closer and closer the finish line approaches and Santana is still leading the pack, her legs a blur as they propel her.

When she hits the fifty yard line, Santana feels like she’s flying. She turns back ready to gloat over her shoulder over the home stretch, but of course there is Brittany, the most determined look on her face and gaining ground fast.

When she’s just ten yards from the end of the set, Brittany is breathing down her neck and she’s smiling something wicked as she pulls up alongside Santana, meeting her stride for stride.

“Loser!” Brittany shrieks, her long legs pitching her forward over the finish line a millisecond before Santana. _Damn those long and perfect legs. Damn them to hell_. “You’d better start planning that date, Lopez,” Brittany taunts between sucking breaths as they slow to a walk. “I set the bar pretty high on our first date and you know how I just _hate_ being disappointed.”

_____

The remaining week of practice is a grueling combination of double sessions geared up on the ice, speed workouts in the nearby mountains where Coach Taylor chases them in a tricked-out golf cart, strength conditioning in the weight room with Coach Beiste and film review for their next upcoming set of scrimmages. Although Santana thought she was in the best shape of her life going into tryouts, she was sorely mistaken, because every single day is a battle of wills with her own body, pushing, always pushing. _Harder, better, faster, stronger. Harder, better, faster, stronger_.

Brittany and Santana spend the majority of their downtime either in the film room or just curled up in bed, constantly studying and testing each other on the thick playbook, certain personnel matchups that could be problematic, and even drawing up two-man plays they can attempt during next week’s scheduled scrimmages.

“See how she bites here?” Santana rewinds the game film with a finger on her iPad and holds it up high enough off the bed so Brittany, who happens to be straddling Santana’s butt and kneading strong fingers into the sore muscles on either side of Santana’s lower spine, can see the Canadian defender fall for a strong stick fake and exposing the backside lane directly to the net.

“If only we could get Rachel to reliably crash the back post and that would totally work.”

“I know, right? It’s not that hard, just fill the open lane! We need to start having Coach get on her case for that, because no matter how often we rotate, she’s just killing me being late to that spot.”

“I know someone else who kills your backside,” Brittany deadpans, holding a serious face long enough for Santana to turn her head around and give some hard side-eye before she can’t hold the straight face any longer and bursts into giggles.

“Seriously? That’s bad, Britt, even for you.”

“Whatever, you liked it. By the way, how’s the date planning going? Ready to do the wooing this time, Candy Corn?”

“Nearly all phases of Operation Woofest are set up and ready to go. You set the bar pretty high but I’m confident I can follow up and exceed expectations.”

“Only ‘Exceed Expectations’? I’d be shooting for that perfect ‘Outstanding’ if I were you.” Brittany’s hands have finally stopped their massaging and she climbs off the bed, crossing the room to flip off the light before crawling back under the covers.

“Can you even go one day without a single Harry Potter reference? We should bet on that, because I’m going to go on ahead and say there’s no chance,” Santana jokes, tucking away the iPad and rolling around to face Brittany, her eyes adjusting slowly to the suddenly pitch dark room.

“But seriously, Jo, I’m supposed to believe that Hermione Jean Granger, brightest witch of her age, failed to get an ‘Outstanding’ on her Defense Against the Dark Arts O.W.L? She only saved those two knuckleheads about a thousand times when they were off fighting against the very subject!”

“Mmm. It’s so hot when you get all worked up about Harry Potter,” Santana eggs on, her eyes hooded as they flit down to Brittany’s lips and back again.

“I mean, come-” But Santana interrupts whatever Brittany is planning on ranting about next with a wet open-mouthed kiss, rolling over to top her and shutting her up good and proper.

"I’ll make you come, all right."

_____

“Commonnnnnn, Britt! Just ONE time, pleeeeeease? I did just give you like five orgasms.”

“No way, José.”

“But,” Santana starts, trying to pry her hands underneath Brittany and flip her onto her other side. As Brittany digs further into the mattress in protest, Santana lets out an exaggerated groan.

“You never let me be the big spoon,” she whines. “Come on just appease me this one time!”

“Negative, earthling,” Brittany responds in her best robot voice.

“Pleeeeeeeeeease.”

“I am the largest spoon in this bed. Consider me the serving spoon and you,” she teases, tickling the one spot on her lower side that never fails to make Santana squirm, “the teaspoon. Nice try though.” Santana’s face blushes as she pouts petulantly, but Brittany just chuckles and presses a kiss to her downturned lips. “Goodnight, Teaspoon. Can’t wait for our date tomorrow.”

“Ugh I can be a big spoon, too! I’m going to sneak attack you when you’re asleep and it’ll be the best night of rest you’ve had in your life, just you wait!”

Brittany hums in mock agreement, pressing a grin and then a kiss into Santana’s shoulder blade as she wraps both arms around her little spoon and snuggles closer, her nose pressed into the back of Santana’s neck just as she falls asleep.


End file.
